


Graduation and other disasters

by miss_Carrot



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: hobbit_kink, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:46:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_Carrot/pseuds/miss_Carrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo started his studies at the Lúthien Tinúviel University of Rivendell he feared the day of his graduation, certain that there would be no one in the stands cheering for him. Now the day has finally come and he couldn't be happier, because all thirteen of his closest friends will be here for him. Or at least so he hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graduation and other disasters

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story. All characters and concepts used belong to their rightful owners.
> 
> This fic has been written for the following prompt at the hobbit-kink community: 
> 
> _Modern!AU_  
>  _When Bilbo first started his years at a university he tried not to think too much of the day he'd finally graduate only to have no one in the stands cheering for him._  
>  _Now he's finally graduating and couldn't be happier, because 13 of his closest friends are nearly breaking eardrums with their cheers for him._  
>  (Full prompt available at http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=17789214#t17789214)
> 
> As usual, I have treated the prompt quite loosely, but it's not my fault - Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just appeared in my head and _demanded_ her presence in this fic. Who am I to refuse? Anyway, I hope that the OP doesn't mind and will forgive me both trailing off the topic and the cheap plot devices.
> 
> My thanks go to manarai for her quick beta-reading. All remaining errors are mine, unfortunately, and I'll be grateful for pointing them out. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“Bilbo, mate, don’t do it to me!” Lindir towered over him, making sad puppy eyes. “Please, please, do come on! Don’t be such a square!”

“Why, I am not.” Bilbo packed the remaining books to the cardboard box and tried to close it, but the stack of books was too high for the lid to fit properly. “I’m just not in the right mood, you see? I’ll sit here,” he patted his bed, smiling lightly, “and, you know, ponder about the…”

“The shadows of pasts and the splendour of the future,” Lindir finished for him. It was Bilbo’s favourite phrase recently, no wonder that the elf caught it up. “And you’re saying you’re not in the mood!”

When Lindir finally left, Bilbo closed the door behind his roommate and gave out a sigh of relief. There wasn’t anything bad in spending one’s last night as a student drinking cheap wine and reciting cheap poetry under the stars, but he had different plans. He turned off the lights and in the purple shadows of the falling evening he took a long glance at his room. Brushing his fingers against the faded backs of the books stored neatly in a box under his bed, he wondered how much this place changed within the last three years. When he started here, the walls were empty, there wasn’t a single photo frame and he wouldn’t ever think that one day he’d hang the huge, imposing black banner of the Technical University of Erebor, which made Lindir wince every time the elf looked at it, just over his bed.

“I was so very lonely,” he muttered, looking closely at the small ID photo taken just before his first day at the university. The chubby, fair-haired boy who looked at him from the picture seemed lonely indeed, pale and with dark circles under his wide eyes, and this scared look on his face. “I was frightened and alone, and there was no one I could talk to.”

Except cousin Lobelia, of course, but that was not a real exception. She was the most outgoing, chatty person he had ever known and back then he felt so _unsure_ in her presence… Things changed, of course, and he liked her, he really did. But. There was always a _but_ when things concerned Lobelia Bracegirdle. Lobelia Bracegirdle—Sackville-Baggins, he corrected himself. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Otho, the shy, hard-working, pragmatic Otho Sackville-Baggins won the heart of Lobelia. But weirder things happen.

Like his graduation tomorrow, for example. Bilbo laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He still wasn’t sure what the team were up to ( _Ya’ll love it, lad!_ , Bofur assured him on the phone, which made him even more unsure), but the sole fact that they would be at his graduation made him smile broadly. Three years ago he couldn’t help but imagine the grave silence falling after his name is read aloud, with no single person cheering him up. He could picture this walk of shame, the laughs among fellow graduates, the pitying murmurs of their mums…

“Bilbo!” A high-pitched shriek came from behind the door. He jumped and regretted it immediately, because a hard spring which he usually remembered hit him in a very sensitive part of his body. “Bilbo, are you there?! I need your help!”

“Yes, do come in!” he called back, repressing the urge to massage his poor bottom. Lobelia stormed into his room, with her floral nightgown thrown over a LTU jumper. She quickly turned on all the lights, which made him squint, but he could see that her eyes were glowing with that particular eagerness which he had always found kind of unnerving. “Can I offer you some tea and biscuits?”

“No, but you can offer me a piece of advice.” She went very close to him, closed her eyes and turned her face so that he was facing her right cheek. “This one…” Then she turned her face again, showing his her left cheek. “Or rather this one?” Bilbo blinked and shook his head, absolutely flabbergasted. “Well?” Lobelia prompted, clearly irritated with what she thought to be his indecisiveness.

“I, err… I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about…”

“The _make-up_ , cousin dear!” she huffed, exasperated, rolling her eyes at him. Then she closed them and turned her face again. “So – the left or the right one?”

Bilbo tried to see the difference and this time he managed; one eye was framed with a dark brown line, while the other was in lighter colour and somewhat shiny. But how on Middle-Earth was he to know which one was better? “Um… Both are fine, I guess?”

“Don’t you dare! Otho said precisely that! I don’t need a compliment, you flatterer,” she winked at him with the shiny eye. “I need a piece of advice. You know the colours and stuff.”

Yes, that he did. Ink colours, paper colours, seal wax colours… He graduated in archival science and specialised in medieval maps, so of course he had some idea about colours. But not make-up colours, Iluvatar help him!

“You know, I really don’t find myself knowledgeable about eye shadows and these things,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Why don’t you ask your friends? Are you cross with Tauriel again?”, he added tentatively.

“They might suggest the wrong option, you know, out of jealousy,” Lobelia said with a shrug. “But I think I’ll go for the darker one. Do you want to hear my speech?”

Bilbo found himself nodding, even though he had heard each version of The Speech – including the final one – about a bajillion times. But he could see that Lobelia was nervous: she refused the tea with biscuits and was so determined to get into her role that she paraded in her floral nightgown and mismatched make-up through the whole campus. He seated himself on his bed, very careful about the spring this time, and smiled at her encouragingly.

Lobelia started with The Speech, standing bolt upright and with a glow in her eyes. Bilbo didn’t hear the words, which he already knew by heart, but rather listened to the tone. Her manner of speaking and posture made the tiny hobbit girl in a nightgown into someone quite remarkable. Bilbo closed his eyes and thought about tomorrow. He could almost see Bombur producing caramels out of his capacious pockets, Nori hitting on some girls with cheesy pick-up lines much to Dori’s embarrassment and Balin finishing an anecdote which had probably started two hours ago and was interrupted ten times at least. “We have made friendships which will be cornerstones of our future”, said Lobelia, hitting her fist on her palm, and Bilbo couldn’t but agree.

He still wondered what made him answer the ad posted at the noticeboard of his favourite website, Oldmapsgeeks-dot-me. _Old maps specialist needed for a quest_ , it said quite laconically, _for further details please write us at thelonelymountain@erebor.edu.me. Stealth a huge plus._ He wrote an e-mail, answered some very easy questions about invisible ink and found himself shaking all the way in a bus on the rocky road to Dale. He had thought back then that he was going only to decipher an old map for a group of technical students. Well, after seeing him they probably had hoped for it as well.

He remembered Dwalin towering over him and sizing him up, stopping on the runes on his jumper. “LTU…? Have we ever heard of any technical university named with L, lads?” Oh, the horror on their faces when he explained that LTU stands for Lúthien Tinúviel University of Rivendell… Bilbo bit up laughter in the last moment – Lobelia was now talking about their deep gratitude towards the professors, so it was not the good point to express his merriment – but this memory was funny indeed. When they heard _Rivendell_ , Kíli and Fíli just started to giggle wildly and Thorin looked like he was unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“How was it?”, asked Lobelia with her eyes gleaming and tails of her robe flowing wildly.

“Splendid,” Bilbo said with absolute confidence and wide smile on his round face. Lobelia hugged him tightly, kissed his cheek, and disappeared as quickly as she arrived. She needed to practice walking, or so she said. Weird as it sounded, it wasn’t unbelievable in the case of Lobelia Bracegirdle—Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo knew her long enough to be sure that each step would be practiced to perfection.

In the sudden silence of his empty room he could get back to his memories. He looked at the small photo showing thirteen dwarves in black jumpers with the orange logo of TUE on their chests and one tiny hobbit in a green-and-blue LTU t-shirt. Smiling fondly, he thought of his first adventure with the dwarves – and it was splendid indeed! The dwarves, who turned out to be students of different years in the Faculty of Mining and Metallurgy at the Technical University of Erebor – apparently needed the old map they wanted him to decipher to find beds of a precious stone (or crystal?) called bubolite, yadda-lite or something like that. Bilbo never actually bothered to learn its name, but due to its importance he nicknamed it the Arkenstone, and the dwarves found the name catchy enough to use it frequently – out of Thorin’s hearing range, that is, at least at the beginning. The Arkenstone was apparently a part of his family heirloom and not everyone was privy to the knowledge about it. So when someone – Bilbo was pretty sure that it was Óin – suggested that the hobbit should be shown the map, all hell broke loose.

Never before or after did Bilbo witness such a magnificent, heated, deafening row. Bifur hit the table with his fist so strongly that he almost broke it, Dwalin growled like a pride of lions, and Dori lamented and cursed the online ad and Nori, who had nothing to do with it, but was a fine target nevertheless. Fíli and Kíli, who apparently thought that having a hobbit and a _humanities_ student to that on their quest was the funniest thing ever, yowled like stray cats in Bilbo’s favour, and Ori tried to stick his oar in the discussion, but nobody cared for his politely expressed views. It lasted good three quarters before Thorin, who didn’t participate in the exchange, rose from his seat and silenced everybody with his glare.

“If we don’t establish a cooperation with another university, the Grey Wizard Corporation will withdraw our research grant,” he said gravely, looking directly in Bilbo’s eyes like it was his fault.

And that was it. That was the beginning of the wildest, funniest, most _exciting_ adventure Bilbo had had in his whole life. The barely concealed disregard of the Erebor students quickly turned into grudging respect – humanities student or not, Bilbo knew his own worth when it came to maps, and besides, he proved himself a better camper than some of the dwarves. He never told the team, but his mum used to be a girl guide and taught him a few tricks when he was still a boy. After weeks of running up the hills, crawling in nasty caves, wading through mud and fighting – even literally – with hunger, insects and a street gang, Bilbo could not imagine going back to Rivendell and never seeing the dwarves again.

Luckily, he didn’t have to. Balin called him just three days after his return to the LTU campus, asking casually how he felt about dragons. Bilbo, whose knees shook uncontrollably at the very mention of dragons, agreed to accompany the team in a heartbeat, not bothering to listen to the proposal to the end.

“You know what a dragon is like, don’t you” Bofur asked him when he arrived in the Erebor campus, ready for a journey with a cleverly packed backpack and two handkerchiefs safely tucked in his pockets. “A furnace with wings.”

“Yeah, I know, incineration and all that,” he answered with a nonchalant shrug. Bilbo was too happy to see his friends again to think about such marginally important obstacles. And they, it seemed, were happy to see him.

_Friends_ , Bilbo thought with a fond smile, lying on his narrow bed and looking at the Erebor banner. Friends, who were going to be with him tomorrow, during the most important day in his life. He closed his eyes and pondered over the dwarves. Crude as they were, their loyalty and attachment could not be called into question. Tomorrow they would be here for him.

*

Apparently he was completely wrong.

Bilbo, panicked to bits, elbowed his way through the crowds gathered in the stands, looking for the familiar sight of black-and-orange jumpers and long braided beards. He tangled himself in his gown, his cap fell from his head and was trampled over by a group of giggling elves, and somebody kicked him in his left shin and hardly apologized. There was no dwarf to be seen.

“Bilbo Baggins!” A strong, clear voice of dean Elrond echoed through the stands. Bilbo looked behind his shoulder and felt his heart stop. The dean was standing on the platform and holding Bilbo’s diploma. He threw himself towards the dean, but the crowds were like a stone wall. First politely, and then with aggression which was unusual for him, Bilbo fought to make his way forwards, but the elves didn’t move a tiny bit, deaf to his demands. Folds of dark blue fabric of the academic gowns blinded him as he tangled deeper and deeper into them. The cloth was surprisingly heavy, falling on his head and shoulders. A wave of panic hit him, his breathing became erratic. It felt like drowning in fabric. Closing his eyes shut, Bilbo gave out a scared yelp.

And suddenly the elves parted in front of him like river water in front of a log. He stood alone before the dean and the whole council, with his hair messy as a hayrick and his robe wrinkled and torn.

“Bilbo Baggins,” hissed the dean, his brows going high up his forehead. Never before had he been seen in such a foul mood, or at least Bilbo hadn’t seen him so. Blinking unbelieving he saw that Elrond held his diploma in two fingers, extending his hand as far as possible, like the paper was something revolting. “That should have been expected.”

Not daring to glance back at his fellow students nor meet the dean’s eyes, Bilbo walked towards the platform. He could feel his knees shake and his heart drum painfully in his chest. He carefully scrambled onto the platform, stepping over his robe now and again; his palms were wet with the cold sweat.

“Congratulations,” sputtered the dean, almost throwing his diploma at him. It felt like it was made out of stone.

No one in the stands made a single sound.

Trembling all over, Bilbo turned and made the first step on the stairs. And then his diploma slipped out of his hand and rolled through the grass. Blinking wildly, he threw himself chasing after it, stumbled upon the frayed edge of the gown and fell. He didn’t see anything, but heard a deafening burst of laughter… and a song… about a horse?

“Aaaand I saw a hooooorse outside the dooooor!”

Bilbo sat up, blinking and panting like he was running for his life. He was in his bed, fully clothed – even in a tie – in his dark, empty room. Which, apparently, was now being stormed by Lindir, who trolled enthusiastically and tried to open the lock but missed both the tune and the door.

“Where my oooold hoooorse should beeeee…!”

Jumping out of bed, Bilbo kicked a stool and hit his big toe. _If it goes like this, tomorrow I’ll be limping like I just came back from war or something_ , he thought, heading carefully towards the door. “Lindir? Are you drunk?,” he asked pointlessly, seeing the elf swaying on his feet. Instead of answering, Lindir just hiccupped and rolled himself into the room, falling on the floor with a loud thump. “What did you drink, you fool?” Bilbo muttered, exasperated, dragging him inside and closing the door.

“A leeeeemon shaaandy,” sing-sung the elf, smiling blissfully. Bilbo should have expected that; for some reasons impenetrable to him, elves – who could drink positively _barrels_ of beer without any effect – reacted very strongly to any mixture of alcohol and something sour. A shandy drink was the kind of booze which intoxicated them within mere minutes. “Deeeeliciousssss!”

“Now, get up, you!” By tugging and pulling at Lindir’s arm, Bilbo wanted to force him to move, but the elf just crouched comfortably on the floor. He was far too heavy for Bilbo to lift him onto the bed, but he didn’t want to leave his friend like this. “You can’t sleep right there on the floor!”

“Good, cosy carpethrrr.” The last word turned into a long, deep snore. After several heartbeats of staring helplessly, Bilbo dropped Lindir’s arm and threw a blanket over the elf’s shoulders. He had seen Lindir drunk before, but never so _sloshed_ , that’s for sure. Preparing himself for bed, properly this time, Bilbo finally had a while to get back to his nightmare. He wanted to laugh at it, he really did – the dwarves were his friends after all and would never betray him, and the dean had no reason to be cross at him and it all was purely _ridiculous_. But this nasty feeling of uncertainty didn’t leave him fully; when he was in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open, he couldn’t but worry. They were dwarves, after all, they bore no friendship to the elves and Rivendell was the last but one place they wanted to be in (with Mirkwood University of Life Sciences holding the dishonourable last position).

_But they are friends of mine_ , he reasoned to himself, listening to Lindir’s rhythmical snoring. _They will not fail me_. He looked at the window and saw first signs of the approaching dawn. Forcing himself to close his eyes, he concentrated on counting oliphants jumping over a fence, fairly sure that he’ll be doing it until the daybreak. But since they are humongous creatures, oliphants jumped rather slowly and before he counted a dozen of them, Bilbo was already asleep.

*

“Bilbo! Bilbo, mate, don’t do it to me!”

“Unngh…” With an enormous effort Bilbo cracked one eye open. Over him there was a pinkish spot which tickled his face. “Whaa…?” He inquired, closing his eye with a sigh. The merciful darkness was upon him again.

“Oh, Bilbo, you’re alive!” Something – someone? – grabbed him strongly and shook, and then hugged closely. This someone smelled faintly of digested lemon shandy, which was distinctly familiar and made the cogs in Bilbo’s brain turn livelier. Which hurt like hell.

“What. Wait. Let me go!” he protested, fiddling in Lindir’s embrace. He blinked several times, trying to wake himself up. The elf observed him with relief all over his face; his eyes were slightly red, but there were no other visible effects of last night. On contrary, Lindir was already fully dressed and groomed, which was not a good sign for Bilbo. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past nine. That’s why I thought I’d wake…”

But Bilbo didn’t listen to him. Quarter past nine. _Quarter past nine!_ And he was straight out of bed, not even remotely ready and he had only half an hour left. Running to and fro in utter panic, he collected his clothes and necessary paraphernalia, muttering quietly under his nose.

“Maybe I should have woken you up earlier,” Lindir wondered aloud, observing the hobbit’s ministrations. “But you looked like you really needed the sleep.”

“What I need is my feet comb,” huffed Bilbo, fighting the urge to bite Lindir’s head off.  Well, he would gladly do it, had he not been vertically challenged. Besides, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn’t it. “Have you seen it?”

Luckily enough, the feet comb was found and well used, and shortly they left the hall – Lindir with his head still on his neck and Bilbo with his feet groomed elegantly. The view they made was amusing indeed – especially now, when they wore identical dark blue robes and square caps – but there weren’t any laughs or comments. After three years everyone got used to the tiny hobbit tagging along with the elves. Bilbo suspected however that the change in their moods was mostly due to the gracious nature of Lobelia. Whom he just saw sitting on a chair and crying at the top of her voice. Quickly excusing himself from Lindir, who promised to catch up with him later on, Bilbo rushed towards Lobelia and Otho, deeply distressed by her side.

“She might have twisted her ankle,” he whispered as soon as Bilbo was close enough. “I had some doubts about these elven, uh, _instruments_ , but she seemed so happy…” Otho inclined his head toward a pair of bright red stilettos of unmistakably elven cut, but custom-made for a hobbit’s feet.

“It’s all my faaaaault!” wailed Lobelia, looking at Bilbo with red puffy eyes. The make-up was all over her cheeks in dark trails. “I wanted to be preeeeetty!”

“But you are!” protested Otho, kissing the top of her coiffured head. “But what is more, you are the bravest hobbit I’ve ever known and you won’t give up right now. Everyone’s counting on you. Bilbo, if you could fetch Tauriel or Nindë, please” he asked, not rising his eyes from Lobelia. “As quickly as you can.”

Bilbo felt almost like his nightmare was all over him again. He was frantically elbowing his way between elves, straining to see as much as he could. Finally he heard the high-pitched laughter and spotted the coppery waves of hair which were sure indicators of Tauriel’s presence. And there she was, as always surrounded by her friends and admirers, joking about her latest successes in the games. Tauriel was some sort of an exchange student; her parent university was Mirkwood, but three semesters of her studies she took in LTU, becoming extremely popular among the fellow students because of her social and sport talents. With Lobelia they became friends instantly, fighting and making up all the time, and Bilbo had certain feelings that they were in the fighting phase again, but he was sure that Tauriel wouldn’t deny Lobelia her help now.

“Um, excuse me… I am sorry to interrupt…”, he tried, but the elves shouted over each other and there was virtually no chance to be heard. “Hello there! I wouldn’t like to be rude…”, he said, louder this time, but there was still no response. Exasperated, he tugged firmly a fold of the nearest dark blue robe and yelled: “EXCUSE ME!”

The elf shrieked and turned quickly, ready to smack the intruder in the face, but then she spotted Bilbo, huffed with irritation and returned to the giggling circle. He, however, managed to squeeze himself between the elves as well. There was a sudden moment of silence and he took advantage of it.

“Um, hello Tauriel, I am sorry to bother you, but Lobelia twisted her ankle and needs your help,” he blurted out on one breath, afraid that the elves may interrupt him. Moreover, he always felt a bit unsure in her presence, with all her _popularity_ and the like. Tauriel sized him up, like she always did, and pressed her lips tight together.

“Where?” He pointed the direction. She just squinted, observed the situation for a brief moment and then exclaimed, “Merciful Manwë, it looks serious. Girls, do any of you have any athelas? Or a vanity case at least?”

There was a sudden commotion, it seemed that there were both the kingsfoil and the make-up paraphernalia at hand, and the group of elves rushed towards Lobelia with determination all over their faces. Bilbo was left alone, but as he made his way towards his row, he heard interesting excerpts of a heated discussion.

“I told you not to wear them! Don’t move, I need to apply the concealer.”

“I don’t want your help, go away!”

“Shut up and chew these damned leaves!”

“Chew them yourself, you old cow!”

Hoping that they both knew what they were doing, Bilbo finally found his place between two elves he hadn’t ever met before. He started to look around for the dwarves, suddenly nervous. He couldn’t see much, only some elven heads and shoulders, and glimpses of the glimmering robes of their parents and friends in the guests’ stands. Suddenly there were loud gasps and rising murmur among the visiting elves, but he couldn’t see a single thing. Even standing on top of his seat – to the horror of his neighbours – didn’t help.

“I can’t see a single thing!” he hissed, hitting the chair back with his fist.

“Shall I describe it to you, or would you like me to find you a box?” grumbled a grumpy voice behind him. Bilbo turned back so quickly that he almost fell out of his seat. It was Glóin, his crossed arms and his deep frown indicating great distress. Just behind him Bilbo spotted Óin, who wasn’t too happy as well, poking his hearing aid with his index finger.

“Whaaat? Does he have pox?” he shouted like he always did when his aid didn’t work properly. The elves, who were deeply shocked with the mere presence of the dwarves in the aisle, now looked utterly terrified. They quickly leaned away, eyeing him suspiciously. “Then why isn’t he in a bed, huh? I’ve always said too much fresh air isn’t healthy…”

“I _don’t_ have pox!” Bilbo yelled in a high voice, casting nervous glances around him. Neither elves nor Óin looked convinced, though. “I am so glad you came,” he added quieter, but not much, minding the hearing aid. And he was glad indeed – he felt like a block of ice in his stomach just melted down. “Are the rest here as well?”

“Aye, we are just to say hi. They are waiting… now pardon me, miss!” An elven girl in absurdly high yellow stilettos lost her balance and helped herself, using Glóin’s head as a stabilizer. “I am not a handrail!”

“Oh, so touchy,” she shrugged, wiping her hand in folds of her robe, which made both dwarves square their shoulders defensively. “Who did invite you here anyways?”

“I did,” Bilbo said, but the girl didn’t hear him, squeezing her way through the row. The dwarves, even grouchier than before, went towards the main aisle. “But wait, guys, don’t mind her, don’t…!” But they just waved at him and mingled with the crowd of elves rushing to and fro, and finding their places in the last moment. Bilbo’s mood sunk again, and he pulled a face towards the unkind elven girl whom he couldn’t see now anyway. _What if Óin and Glóin felt humiliated and offended? What if they persuaded the team to leave Rivendell? What if…_

The drum roll woke him from his unpleasant thoughts and then he saw the whole university council in splendid glimmering capes march down the aisle towards the platform. Everyone was silently admiring them and relished the elevated mood...

“Look, look, they _sparkle_!”

Well, almost everyone. Bilbo would recognize Dwalin’s scandalized tone at the end of the world. Especially when he didn’t even bother to lower his voice. “Do they bathe in glitter?”

Several bursts of muffled laughter and hisses of offence could be heard and Bilbo’s ears went wildly red. He was glad that the dwarves stayed, of course he was, but couldn’t they behave a tiny bit quieter…?

But there were no unexpected shouts anymore and the council made it to the platform successfully. The dean started his speech; his glaring eyes and modulated voice seemed to hypnotize the audience. Bilbo wasn’t sure what the speech was about, but it put him in a mood much more elevated than before. Then there was a deafening applause and Lobelia’s speech was announced, but no one came to the platform. Bilbo shifted in his seat, didn’t see anything for a long while though. And suddenly the whole public started to cheer loudly and chant Lobelia’s name. Bilbo stood on his chair again and saw her as she limped towards the microphone, leaning over Otho’s shoulder. They looked like complete opposites, like they always did, but the other way round – she in her dark blue gown and he in a bright emerald vest and yellow trousers. And yet they were matching each other perfectly. _It’s their smiles_ , Bilbo decided and smiled back, though neither of them could see him.

Lobelia’s speech was brilliant. Truly it was – this time he actually _listened_ to it and with surprise he discovered that in some parts Lobelia improvised. She spoke from her heart, smiling genuinely and squeezing Otho’s shoulder. He smiled too, unsurely at first – Bilbo could almost see his knees go all wobbly – but then he relaxed, spellbound by his wife’s speech. When she finished, Bilbo realized that he had shed a tear or two, but he was too occupied with cheering at the top of his voice to care. He was almost certain that he heard low dwarven voices among the applauding exclamations as well.

When the dean started to read the names and present the diplomas, Bilbo’s palms started to sweat and he couldn’t but crumple the cuffs of his robe. He was cheering together with the others, but didn’t put much heart into it. _What if they left_ , he was thinking frantically, gulping nervously and fidgeting in his seat. _What if they don’t hear my name. What if the dean lost my diploma. What if the nightmare comes true._

His knees were positively shaking, he felt dizzy, and his heart was drumming wildly in his throat. If the elf sitting beside him – the last one from the long line of elves whose names started with an ‘A’ – wouldn’t nudge him in his shoulder, he might have missed his own name. He took a deep breath.

“And with the first class honours – Bilbo Baggins!”

For a second the audience was still. And then it _exploded_. From the last rows of the stands for public came a continuous wave of ecstatic, deafening cheers, and chants, and _noise_. Bilbo climbed the stairs and bowed to the beaming and clapping teachers and marched in front of them towards the dean. Professor Elrond handed him his diploma and leaned to shake his hand with friendly smile on his face.

“Congratulations, Mister Baggins,” he said, shouting over the cries in the audience. “I hope to see each other in the postgraduate course.”

Bilbo just nodded, for his voice had betrayed him. He turned to see his friends, cheering him and yelling his name constantly. And then he _saw it_.

Among the crowd of elves in shimmering white and silver gowns there was a lonely island of black, made of thirteen dwarves shouting atop of their lungs. They were holding a huge yellow banner saying _CONGRATULATIONS BILBO!_ in thick black letters, and a cloud of colourful balloons, and Kíli was playing fiddle, and Ori was sitting on Dwalin’s shoulders and playing an absurdly big ocarina, Bofur and Bifur were manoeuvring a giant kite in shape of a bright-red dragon, and Thorin…

And Thorin made eye contact with Bilbo for a second, and then intoned in his deep voice:

_You are the champion, my friend!_

Bilbo couldn’t believe his eyes – and ears. But Thorin’s voice was perfectly audible in the farthest end of the stands. The dwarves caught up on it and the next verse they sung together:

_You kept on fighting till the end! You are the champion! You are the champion…_

*

In a few minutes Bilbo will walk down the stairs on shaky, unsure legs and – disregarding the whole protocol of the event – go by his seat straight to the stands, to meet his friends. Dori will embrace him so tightly that he’ll lose his breath and Nori will steal his cap and ruffle his hair. Bifur, with his usual mumbling, will press a gift into his hands. Fíli and Kíli will lead him in a wild dance of triumph and Bombur will force two strawberry muffins into him. Óin will make sure he _really_ doesn’t have pox, Balin will kiss him on his cheeks, and Dwalin will pat him on his shoulder so hard that he would furrow his nose in the mud if it isn’t for Thorin. Thorin, finally, will shake his hand and say quietly _You did well, Halfling_. _Bilbo_ , he will add, after a heartbeat. And Bilbo won’t say anything because of the lump in his throat.

But all this will happen in a few minutes. Now Bilbo stays on the platform clasping his diploma and holding back tears, and is simply as happy as can be.

Because his friends are here for him. 


End file.
